


a collection

by plague0witch



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Babybones (Undertale), Death, Dom Papyrus, M/M, Misdirected anger, One-Shots, Out of Character, Papyrus Knows More Than He Lets On, Porn Without Plot, Pretending, Prostitution, Sad Papyrus, Sex, Stars, Sub Sans, Unhealthy Relationships, Worried Papyrus, abusive gaster, abusive gaster implied, messed up kids, oneshots, outertale, sans doesn't agree to things, sans is sad, self harm implied, space dust, star dust - Freeform, talking about death, thought of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plague0witch/pseuds/plague0witch
Summary: just a thing of shorter one-shots and things i didn't want to finish so i rushed itmostly fontcest





	1. come and tell me i can't tell you

He isn’t who he’s supposed to be.

He isn't exactly the fun-going, laid back, always happy, calm person he portrays himself as and as people see him. He isn't even  _ happy _ , not at all, because late at night whispered prayers ghost through that happy-go-lucky house gone dark and he wakes up twenty times a night because of bad memories dancing in his skull.

You would know, because you see, day after day, night after night. You live with him. You’ve grown up with him. You know almost everything about him.  _ Almost _ .

It always feels as if you're  _ just _ that close. It’s always  _ almost _ everything. It feels like you’re running around in circles. There’s a change and he gets worse, and worse? You’re remembering odd things and when you bring it up as a concern he waves it off faster than he waves you off in the morning.

You have a pretty normal life in terms of monsters, you think. Your missing parents is an odd thing, but it isn't exactly unheard of. There’s a younger child running around talking as if his parents are there, but he never has a home to go to. He just drifts around Waterfall. You’re a lot more observant than you seem, your brother tells you.

You really hate how repetitive everything feels and yet every day is a new one anyway. Yesterday you greeted the day with the same enthusiasm but different activities and different words but you talk to him and your voice feels sore like you've repeated those things far too many times, but you're sure you've never said the same words twice. You don't say anything. You never say anything.  _ This is normal _ .

Today you rock on your heels, and it feels like you’re frozen. You know, at the back of your mind, that there’s a set schedule for today. And it’s not the schedule you set, no, it's a  _ fate _ sort of schedule, something you  _ have _ to do you don't have a choice you can  _ feel _ it.

Everything feels like tar around you, because you don't think you want to follow that schedule. Yes, yes, he knows too, because when you turn to him slightly there's this hint of surprise on his face. It’s a  _ this has never happened before _ sort of surprise and you can  _ feel it you can _

You don’t call his name. It’s like some sort of flip was switched. Instead of doing what you wanted, your body turns back. You face forward and talk about puzzles. He relaxes.

Happy-go-lucky guy, in a happy-go-lucky house, in a happy-go-lucky rundown poor and damned to hell town.

You must be losing your mind.


	2. i am on the run and go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> idea for what happens with gaster's death. aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something i never really finished and am not going to.

  There was an accident.

  You don’t— you don’t really know what happened. At all. You’re in the hospital now, Papyrus at your side and clutching your hand, though the doctors left hours ago and he doesn’t need to be so tense. Neither of you speak. Every now and then he kind of dips his head and kisses yours, a brief contact that relieves you for just a minute before you’re tense, confused again.

  It was at the core, you think.

  Yes, it must have been, yes. Actually, most of the staff was called to the core. You had been running late. You’re always running late. Your dad is used to it. You must have hit your head or something, that’s all, but—

  But no. No, you didn’t just fall on your own, and not with how weak you feel now. No, you do remember the— the ground shake. The entire core felt like it was collapsing, trembling, and there was a lot of yelling. A lot of screaming. So loud.

  The room you’re in now is darker than it should be.

  You do remember his screams, your father’s. His started first, a shriek that sounded so unlike him, and you started running, you were running, and then— and then there was an outbreak of yells and then this, this  _ ripple _ of energy.

  It happened when you distinctly heard your father’s yells, screams, cries, stop.

  The core.

  There’s something wrong with the core.

  “There’s something wrong with the core,” you repeat aloud, louder than you mean to say, and sit up. You have to— you have to go. Where’s…

  “Sans, lie down.” That’s Papyrus. His grip loosens and he gently runs his thumb over your knuckles, kisses your hand. You can see tears in his eyes. “You’re to hurt to explore the core right now, ok ay?”

  “I’m n-not— no, I wasn’t even there. L-look, see, the room’s dark, the lights are dim, something’s wrong with—”

  “Lie down,” he repeats, curt. No,  _ no _ , he needs to listen. “Where’s dad? Or Larkeet? Snow? They gotta know more than me. Where are…”

  The look on his face strikes fear sharp, deep, into your soul. No, no, no. You’re overthinking. Your voice comes out thick. “Where’s dad?” You repeat. “He’s here, right? He’s… he went to get a coffee or something, right?”

  “No— Sans… just… No, Sans.” He sounds more pained.

  “Oh, is he hurt? Oh, he was probably at the blunt at whatever it was, why isn’t he in the same room as me? P—” Your brother isn’t looking at you. “Papyrus, is he… what’s wrong with him?”

  “Sans,” he breathes, quiet, but then he just covers his face with the hand not latched onto you. “Sans… I… Sans, they’re dead. They all are. You’re—”

  He chokes.

  “You’re the only one who survived. A-and Alphys, I mean, she’s okay too, she wasn’t there at all. She— sorta wanted to see you. She’s, um, she’s…”

  Your expression must be something funny, because he just stops talking, voice trailing off uncertainly, wavering. He looks like he’s been crying, actually.

  Then you’re laughing. You’re giggling, laughing, hands cupping your face. You sit up fully, the IV taped to your wrist sort of— sort of rubs against the bone in a way you don’t like. It’s numb, though. You keep laughing. 

  “You— you’re trying to kid me, right? That’s— that’s not a good joke. Where’s dad? He’s hiding behind the door or something, right?”

  “Sans,” he whispers, and you break.

  “No,” you snarl, and you jerk, no. “No, shut the fuck up, Papyrus, you’re fucking terrible, you know that? No, fuck you, fuck you,  _ fuck you _ why would you even—  _ Fuck you _ !”

  He catches you in a hug, slides closer and holds you, but you growl. “No, no, fuck you,  _ fuck _ you, let— where the fuck is dad? Tell me, Papyrus,  _ fuck you, Papyrus, just fucking tell me where dad is _ .”

  “Sans, calm down.” His voice is too soft, sad. “Calm down, okay? I… Dad’s gone.”

  “ _ Fuck you _ !”

  You can’t— you can’t… dad is fine. Dad is fine.

  You tire out, eventually, after a while of cursing your brother out. He’s patient and you have to thank him for that later. 

  Even though you’re exhausted, the tears just come. They stream down your face and he slowly, slowly slides into your bed, holds you to his chest and the warmth that floods you in his full embrace is so immense that you start crying harder. He pets your head and kisses it and cries with you, and it’s really dumb being a thirty year old man crying over your father, but your brother doesn’t judge you, just holds you against him. He’s so considerate, you don’t deserve him.

  You don’t deserve anything, though.


	3. hesitance doesn't exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically prostitute sans llmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not nearly finished but its been sitting in my google docs for half a year

  “So,” He says, but his voice feels dry as hands run up and down his femurs, “you do this often?” 

  Fingers hook under the ribbon tied around his waist, delicately untie it. “No,” the nameless man says, as the broken ribbon is tossed to the floor. “Needed a night out.”

  Sans nods, swallows. The man hitches his skirt up, fingers run over his pubis, alien to the bone, and the skeleton bucks when he presses, a whimper forcing from him. There’s a chuckle. “I need a pussy, here,” He says, and Sans shudders again when those fingers play with his ischium.

  “You gotta, ah,” Sans starts, whimpers. “You gotta take your hand away. Magic won’t form.” The fingers drop and he almost regrets pointing it out, but a plump mound forms right over the bone, lips wider than what’s normal for humans, entrance dipping into his pelvis inlet. Curiously, the human reaches into his pelvis, along his spine, and fingers brush the outside of that curve that is his cunt and Sans bucks, yelping sharply.

  “Don’t,” He gasps, rutting up again when the fingers press to the artificial flesh, “don’t do that.”

  There’s hesitance, but the human pinches the conjured skin between two fingers. Sans arches, cries out, and his femurs snap together. “A-ah, h _ -ha _ that’s t-too— you can’t j-just—”

  And then suddenly, the hand pulls away and he can breathe again.

  Sans yelps as he’s thrown back onto the bed, but he shimmies his skirt up and parts his legs, holds them up and to his chest so his cunt is on full display. He doesn’t look anymore, eyes shut tight.

  “...Does this scare you?” The man asks, as Sans hears his pants drop. He dares to be honest. “A little bit.”

  It’s… obviously ignored. He feels the head of a cock press against his swollen labia and inhales sharply, tensing. He barely gets himself to relax when he’s suddenly being pounded into, a hand holding his legs steady and the other fisting up in the bed. He arches, cries out, bucks. If anything the thrusts speed up.

  “Ah,” he whines, lucky he’s wet enough for it not to hurt, “Faster.”

  The rest of their session is a blur that he can’t remember; it’s clearer when the man comes inside of him, makes him gasp and writhe as the hot substance hits the back of his cunt, but then it goes fuzzy grey again.

  Sans stabs his fork into the white container he’s eating from, exhaling sharply. His pelvis hurts. So does… everything else.

  He has to work tomorrow; one in town, one out. He’s not looking forward to another session, his femurs ache. Papyrus will be home soon. He needs some motrin, to take some before his brother gets home only to start yelling. God, he has a headache, too-

  At least, at least he has some time.

  The container, eventually, is abandoned. He lost his appetite, replaced picking at his shirt for standing in front of his bathroom mirror. He looks a  _ wreck _ , and his cheeks are still a splotchy blue from his overactive magic, sockets underlined in some shade of cobalt or slate that makes him look even more exhausted. He bends down, rubs his face, fingers digging into his eye sockets.

Life on the surface is great, really. For everybody else, of course. Sans isn’t stuck telling Papyrus that no, you probably won’t ever have to kill someone, yeah, they’ll die if they fall down here. Should he have lied, denied it for his brother’s sanity? Surely not.

God, he wants to bash his own skull in. He’s thinking way too much tonight.

Turns out, Papyrus finds him passed out in the bathroom. He really wonders if he fell, or if he sat down, fully expecting to fall asleep there. His brother really isn’t happy.

Life is great.

Papyrus would be so disappointed in him, he thinks. He would hate his idea of a profession. That’s not even what it is. That’s not what it is at all.

He skips breakfast, manages to slip right past Papyrus out the door. He can relax before the next session starts. Sans never takes the car, leaves that to the person who pays for it, and he draws out a cigarette as he starts his walk. Papyrus hates cigarettes, too.

He sighs.

Quite frankly, his jeans rub against his pelvis in a way that makes the ache worse and the sleeves of his hoodie feel too tight. Clothes don’t feel right anymore. He really is a whore. Whore, whore, whore.


	4. the meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an idea i had  
> sans is something like an unborn child's ghost i think  
> only papyrus can see him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this like five times but i got farthest on paper and i never wrote the whole thing down  
> sorry this is confusing

You’re eight when you meet him.

You’re at recess, and you’ve been kicked out of the game; you don’t really know what it was, but you were doing it wrong. It was okay, though; they were having more fun now.

You’re by the edge of the playground, sitting on a slide and idly dragging your feet through the mulch. You’re taller than most kids your age, so your feet touch the ground when you sit there.

You don’t hear footsteps, but somebody sits down right in the mulch near your feet, and you stop. You blink when you see him; he’s tiny, as small as the first graders, and you’re a third grader. But he looks kind of like you, and he’s wearing nothing. Somehow, it doesn’t bother you.

“Hi,” you say, and he nods. “Are you a first grader? If you are, you shouldn’t be here. It’s not your recess time yet.” He laughs a little, shakes his head. “I’m small,” he replies, and it finally dawns on you that he’s a skeleton, too.

“Well, I haven’t seen you before.” You say. “I’m new,” he replies. “Oh. Okay.”

There’s a silence, and you rub your new, clean shoes into the ground.

“Do you wanna be friends?” You look over, and he’s not looking back, at his hands instead. It’s rude, but you don’t comment on that. “Yeah,” you say, instead, because nobody else has ever actually asked that. “My name is Papyrus.”

He hesitates, nods. “Sans.” Is all he says.

 

“Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” You ask, three days later. You’re in the same spot. You haven’t seen him during class. Maybe he’s in Miss Burn’s class. You’re in Mister L’s. You can’t say his whole name, so the class calls him that. 

“I don’t have any,” is his response.

The next day, you bring a hoodie with you. He puts it on, and it’s way too big for him and hangs down to his knees. He looks ecstatic. 

 

As a fifth grader, he walks home with you. He’s in your class, but nobody ever talks to either of you. He never gets worksheets and he’s never called on. You stop questioning it.

As a fifth grader, you wear a lot of jeans and long sleeves because too many bruises litter your arms and legs.

As a fifth grader, you lose your virginity and Sans is the only one who knows. Neither of you realize that it is a bad thing.

In sixth grade, he’s in all of your classes. He doesn’t have a schedule, his name is never called, teachers and students alike don’t acknowledge him and he never gets any work. It worries you, but he has more changes of clothes now. He still wears the hoodie you gave him in third grade everyday. It’s getting small.

In sixth grade, you figure out he doesn’t live anywhere. He just stays at the school because nobody notices him there. You invite him to stay with you. You sleep in the same bed and it feels kind of nice.

In seventh grade, you realize you’re attracted to your own gender. You get a crush on a boy in your second period. He doesn’t know you exist. Your dad calls you a faggot. You aren’t to tell anybody this.

In eighth grade, you realize that month-crush was worth nothing and the person you should focus on is the one you sleep with every night, the one with dimmed little eye lights and too-small, stained sweater.

In ninth grade you taste alcohol from your father’s mouth and you hate it. He kisses you a lot for somebody who calls you a faggot. His hands are rough.

  In tenth grade, you kiss Sans and he tastes like nothing. You can’t come to the conclusion properly that he doesn’t really exist. He has to exist. You’re not crazy.

 

“You were supposed to die with him,” Dad says.

 You always knew sans meant without, but you never really thought about it.

 It’s kind of funny, you think. He’s really about dad, Sans is, but you know who he is and he refuses to look at you. It’s really sick, you're in love with your dead brother.


	5. you left me broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unhealthy relationships  
> gaster/sans/papyrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally skimmed over this its also old and i dont remember sitting down to write it

His hands are so soft. How you don’t really  know, with him being a skeleton just like you, but they’re so gentle with you.

When he first fixes you, you distinctly remember his fingers cupping your face, a gentle pressure of his thumb against your cheekbone when your eyes fluttered open.

He says that the first time you saw him, you looked at him for a moment, and then your eyes widened and your entire face flushed. You believe it.

Nothing was forced. He’d never force anything on you, he’s not _ like _ that, despite some nasty rumors spread around. He knows what he’s done isn’t normal. You know you’re not normal. But monsters are made in many ways. It’s just that ripping a skeleton from a child’s body isn’t exactly  _ okay _ .

But it’s not like he keeps you a secret. The king knew he did it from the start, and Asgore neither allowed or disallowed him. You were… probably intended to be like a son to the royal scientist. Your relationship is far from that.

He never forced anything on you but then his hand on your shoulder moved to your back to your side to your neck as he kissed you. Your tongue was clumsy and his was precise. It made for a wonderful time in bed, but.

Then again, the way he sat you in his lap and smothered you until you were giggling uncontrollably was pretty nice.

He wears glasses and so do you, and he tells you that he can fix your sight because of how you were brought about but your answer was to slide your red frames against your sockets and grin. He made them so they acted like magnets to the magic that’s inclusive to only you. You love them, and he always blushes when you put them on.

He says you’re smart, and you usually believe him, because he’s so proud of you when you help him. He knows exactly how to read you, exactly what you like, and he tells you that he loves you in so many ways. He offered to let you leave and live on your own and only come in to work with him, but of course you declined. You love him  _ dearly _ , your soul wants to burst at the thought of leaving him.

He has a cold stare but a soft heart, you know that. Those eyes always melt when they land on you and it makes you feel…  _ wanted _ . Important.

And then he repeats the process.

You feel… really,  _ really _ unsatisfactory. The little warmth that permeates your soul sort of dies and you feel cold. You’re just not good enough, you suppose. You’re just not… smart enough, you’re not enough, you’re not enough.

Somehow, he doesn’t seem to notice your silence, and the fact makes your soul a bit weaker. He doesn’t even  _ care _ . You’re there when the new one wakes up, but you don’t pay him mind. You have to screw your eyes shut when you see him cup the skeleton’s cheek just like he did yours.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

…The new skeleton is… nice, though. His name is Papyrus. It suits him in an odd way, and after he warms up to the royal scientist he finally starts to notice you, hidden away in the chips in the building, small and unnoticeable and solemn, but the way he greets you winds you. It’s not “hello, my name is Papyrus,” it’s hugging you and smiling and making your face hot with embarrassment or fluster when he finally says his name (even though you know it), face inches from yours.

He’s actually really sweet, and one day you ask, “so, he’s like my brother?” 

Your answer was a crisp, “he is a brother to you as much as a son you are to me.”

Papyrus is not as tall as Gaster but he's a little more than head taller than you, and one day it strikes you how much like the elder he really is. He doesn't appear like it, but he’s…  _ really _ smart. Perhaps not in the way that you are alike to the actual scientist, but Papyrus  _ is _ smart. He solves larger things with ease, and he picks up on algebra quickly. It’s…

Disconcerting?

And then a week passes and your relationship with Gaster dwindles until suddenly, he’s at your back again. It happens in a rush, and his hand is on one hip then the other and he pulls you in, and you have no time to react before his tongue is in your mouth. It’s hot and needy and dominant and he has you whimpering, clinging to him and whining within seconds.

His hands are still just as soft when they slide up your femur and bring it up to his hip, just so it rests there as he rubs it, dangerously close to your pelvis.

He pulls away and you gasp softly for breath, startling when he pulls you up against him, forcing your legs to wrap around his hips. “Enjoying the show, Papyrus?” Is the last thing you expect to hear leaving his teeth but then there’s—

He shifts you after an obvious moment of thought and suddenly you’re against the wall and one of his femurs is  _ grinding against your pubis _ . The noises that leave you are hardly orthodox for somebody other than your partner to hear but your  _ entire weight _ is on your pelvis and you can’t stop squealing and moaning and your magic is frightfully ready under your clothes and your jeans keep grinding into your clit.

He’s speaking to… not to you, he’s speaking to Papyrus, beckoning him, and while one moment you’re against the wall and gaster is in between your femurs, the next you’re being carried and then dropped onto the bed.

…no.

You’re in Papyrus’ lap and the  _ eagerness _ in his expression is offputting. “G-Gaster,” you try to say, but then you’re being consumed by the younger skeleton and your entire body burns. He’s so much  more eager, and a hand just skims the crotch of your jeans before dipping into them and he has you rocking against his fingers. They feel warm.  _ God _ they feel so hot and there’s four of them before you can even blink and they’re spreading and jerking and a pleasured sob rips from your throat.

“ _ God _ ,” You say, “ _ please _ ,” but he doesn’t know what you’re  _ asking _ for and all he does is speed up the motions.

It really doesn’t take long for you to come.

What’s—

Gaster’s hands are on you again all of a sudden and your face hits the bed, shoved down into it and hips in the air, and the treatment makes your femurs quiver. An inexperienced tongue slides against your magic and you whine, before there’s a quiet encouragement and the tongue is inside of you.

“ _ Please _ ,” you beg again, over and over and continuing when more practiced fingers swirl against the little bundle of nerves until you’re orgasming again and  _ wailing _ , bucking and gasping and—

You never even  _ agreed _ to this— what the fuck was he  _ doing _ —

And then you’re between them.

This part feels sickly sweet and fake, all up to the point when two heads touch your entrance at the same time and you can sense exactly what they want to do. 

“Wait,” you inhale sharply, “ _ wait _ —”

They don’t wait and your vision goes  _ white _ and when you adjust to your surroundings again you’re moaning, you’re bucking and they’re  _ filling you up _ and—

God, you don’t know what brought this on.

You’re facing Papyrus, chest to chest, and your back is pressed against your actual lover, but the amount of possession on the countenance in front of you is enough that you clamp down on them and freeze up and the third orgasm is way too much.

…you never agreed to any of this, but then you’re lying between them, and Papyrus’ hand is gently against your entrance, rubbing against the lips tenderly, and Gaster is sliding his fingers along your thigh and you couldn't feel  _ better _ .

That’s how it works, from then on.

It’s unspoken, but Papyrus kisses you and so does Gaster, and you assume this is okay. 


	6. stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in which sans is a troubled kid,  
> or papyrus talks about death too much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short something set in outertale.  
> it's not mentioned, but i had the idea of abusive gaster in my head as i wrote it.

when papyrus is eleven, and you’re about to turn fifteen, you’re sitting on the edge of snowdin forest; stargazing. it’s one of his favorite pastimes, and you have an interest too that you just can’t seem to quell.

“sans,” he starts, and your eyes turn to his, and though you know he’s tough and growing, almost as all as you already, at that moment you look at him for what he is; just a child.

(if you said that, he’d look at you funny and tell you that you’re just a kid, too.)

“when i die,” he says, “my dust is going to make the  _ biggest _ , brightest star. it’s going to be wonderful. and everyone will wonder, ‘hey, who’s dust made that star?’ and my great grandchildren will go, ‘oh, that was my grandpa papyrus. he was awesome. definitely the best guy ever.’”

and of course, at this point you should just smile tell him that  _ yeah, buddy, you’re right _ but even the thought of his death makes you feel alone.

“pap, don't’ talk like that.” you keep your voice relaxed, though you aren’t looking at him anymore.

but today he’s not complying. “why not?” he says, a bit disgruntled. “i’m notー”

“because i  _ said so _ , papyrus,’ you shoot with a little more force than necessary, and you’ve already ruined it, to hell with your attachment problem. “because we  _ don’t talk about dying _ .”

“you write about dying,” he quips back, almost eager for your anger. “i know you do, i’ve seen your weird notes. if you talk about it that way, then why can’t i talk about it this way?”

you’re shocked. you thought you hid everything you wrote. what could he have found? lost journal entries? trashed, failed suicide notes?

“and anyway, i’m not scared of it,” the corners of his mouth pitch up. “I think you’re scared of dying. but i’m not. and it’s not like i  _ want _ to die, but i just…”

he stops talking for a few seconds. you don’t interrupt him, for once.

“...it’s going to happen someday.” he looks back at you. “maybe not for a long time. maybe tomorrow. but i will eventually. and i’m not scared. but i want people to remember me, and remember me as a hero, and maybe not a hero, maybe, maybe just a really cool guy.” and he’s still smiling, that damn smile.

“so i can’t let myself be scared, and i don’t want to try to deny it. do you think that it won’t ever happen if we don’t talk about it or something.”

and there you look away. damn kid.

you don’t feel bad about anything, but he’s just too right. too right and too smart and too understand to be his age.

tears hit the snow and melt away.

“...i’m sorry, sans,” he says. “but i don’t want to be scared like you.”

right.


End file.
